I still retain my physical form, well, yes indeed
And I still possess my body, my skin and bones, my seed
But I might as well be a cold corpse, with my heart getting rust
With my soul slowly wilting, my core turning to ashes and dust
.
Sallow skin, sunken and bloodshot eyes, a disregard for other human life
Cold blue lips, a blank stare, a soul built up on endless lies
A zombie, a living dead, a talking corpse, the walking undead
A man with no heart nor soul, but still remains his brain, his head
.
I live monochromatically, in black and white, not technicolor
A day goes by and all I see are gray sunsets and blurred fervors
Dark sunrises, muted colors, a dank and filthy human race
Black here, white there, the same old gray sneering face
.
Then why bother me? Why can’t you just see?
You’re not living, you’re locked up, you’re caged, why not set yourself free?
What is a world without chromaticity? Without any bits of color?
Why not just whip out your gun, your knife, your noose, your razor?
.
Is there even a point in living? I mean, why bother to live?
Why bother if your emotions, your feelings, your core, have already started to leave?
Why not, huh? Why not die permanently? To stop this torture easily?
To finish this endless parade, to end this stupid charade
.
.
.
Because…maybe, just maybe someday, someone can discover my lifeless body
Maybe, maybe, that certain someone will try their best to revive me
Reclaim my soul, color my sight, breathe life into me once again
Revive my still pulse, electrify my unbeating heart, remove that thrusted knife
…But, I guess that it will never be bound to happen
So for now I’ll just cross my fingers, keep waiting, and keep on living my cold lifeless life.
A Lost Painting